Something Wicked
by RileyAnnaOlson
Summary: They say magic doesn't solve problems, it only creates new ones, and the bitch of living isn't any easier to deal with at Hogwarts. Inspired by the Deaf West production of Spring Awakening.
1. something started crazy

**BOOK 1: THE INNOCENT ONES**

Otto Lämmermeier fell in love as soon as he got on the Hogwarts Express.

The last compartment on the last car had one seat left. He'd passed up several such compartments earlier because the older students frowned at him. It wasn't every day you got to go to Hogwarts, and he wanted to be with people who appreciated it. When he reached the last compartment, the tiny shy girl with dark curls and a turn-up nose invited him to sit by her. She and her companions seemed properly appreciative. He sat.

Next to the little one who called herself Wendla sat a boy with a wide smile who was all elbows and knees and big hands. Opposite them, the taller of the twin girls in matching dresses braided the other's hair, and the new love of Otto's life sat across from him.

The beautiful girl said something that seemed pleasant. Otto was about to apologize and explain, but Wendla shook her head subtly at the girl and she rectified her mistake. "Oh! I'm sorry, I didn't realize." Mary mother of God, she could sign too. "What's your name?"

"Lämmermeier—Otto, I mean."

"I'm Marianna, or just Anna," she said, passing around a handful of Chocolate Frogs from her pink purse. The gangly boy looked wide-eyed at his twitching frog. "That's Wendla, Ernst—he's a Muggle-born, can you believe it?—and Thea and Melitta; they're Rilows."

Otto nodded, waved, and pretended being a Rilow meant something to him. Wendla, Ernst, and Thea waved back. Melitta had her hands full of braid, so she lifted one elbow in a friendly way. "Do you all know each other?" he asked.

"Met today," said Marianna or just Anna.

"Oh." The train started with a bump that sent Thea into Melitta's lap. "Are you a Muggle-born too?"

"Half. Why do you ask?"

"Me too! Er, I just wondered why you were, er, I mean, why you were…" He gestured lamely at her wheelchair. The Rilow twins looked scandalized that he'd ask.

"I got in an awful broom crash when I was little." She brushed off his apologies with a toss of her blonde curls. "I don't even notice anymore."

"Neither do I. You're still beautiful." Everyone glanced at him, and his ears turned red. "Oh dear." They were off to a promising start.

* * *

Anna had so much candy stashed in her purse that when a lady arrived with a tray of sweets, Otto was the only one who could stand to look at it. He bought cold pumpkin cider and offered to buy the others something, but they groaned. Ernst turned green, and Wendla patted his shoulder. The train's constant lurching did nothing to help him, and when the first years disembarked and learned they'd be sailing across the lake next, Ernst nearly walked back to King's Cross.

Otto helped the groundskeeper lift Anna's chair into the boat. She twisted her hair and smiled, but only giggled awkwardly at his attempts at conversation, and once the Rilow twins joined them she talked almost exclusively to them. Otto didn't mind. Someday she'd fall in love with him too. Hopefully.


	2. grown-up girls

Melitta and Thea held hands as the first years marched to the front of the Great Hall. "Hansi!" Thea waved to their brother, who sat near the entrance at a table of green-clad students. He raised one eyebrow and, when no one was looking, waved back. Second years were supposed to be above such things.

Hänschen had explained the Sorting that summer, so Melitta didn't find it as exciting as Ernst seemed to. It was almost dull, just a talking hat naming houses for people they didn't know.

Wendla went to Hufflepuff and a jittery boy with glasses greeted her. Hufflepuffs were tough but too innocent. Gryffindors had guts and you could get them to do whatever you wanted if you made it a challenge. Ravenclaws…curiosity killed the cat. As for Slytherins, they might rule the world if they didn't sabotage each other first. At least, that was how Hänschen put it. It was nice to have a brother who taught you things.

Otto became a Gryffindor. Thea clapped for him, but he only had eyes for Anna.

They got toward the R's and Melitta did some serious thinking. Her name came before Thea's; she would be Sorted first. It didn't do to leave these things to chance, or what a hat thought of the inside of her head. "Rilow, Melitta," the headmaster called from the scroll. She stepped forward, crossed her fingers and toes, and closed her eyes as he set the Sorting Hat on her head.

Before the hat could say anything (Hänschen said it had a big mouth), she thought firmly, _Excuse me, sir?_

 _I'm not called sir often. This is a pleasant surprise. How may I help you?_

 _I want to be in my sister's house. She's next, so if you'd sort her first and then put me there, that'd be good of you._

 _Are you sure? I know already where you'd fit._

 _That's nice, thank you. I want to be with Thea._

 _Suit yourself._

Melitta took the hat off and handed it back to the headmaster. He stared at her, and she adjusted her skirt as she realized the entire school was staring with him. "You can go on. I'll wait here."

He harrumphed and read, "Rilow, Theadora." The hat didn't sit long with her before it declared her "Slytherin!" The girls could see Hänschen's pride across the hall. Thea hesitated for a worried glance at Melitta before rushing to the Slytherin table to hug her slightly disgusted brother.

"Röbel, Ernst," the headmaster called.

"Excuse me," said Melitta, tugging on his sleeve, "I'll just be a minute." She gestured to the hat, which he grudgingly allowed her to take.

 _I'm back,_ she thought. _Could you proclaim me a Slytherin too?_

 _I would have anyway. Congratulations,_ Slytherin!

Forgetting her embarrassment in the wave of applause, Melitta thanked the confused headmaster and allowed Ernst to take his turn (he was a Hufflepuff).

Thea knocked the wind out of her in her embrace and Hänschen ruffled her curls. "The whole family!" Thea beamed. "Aren't you proud of us, Hansi?"

"I wouldn't expect anything less," he said.


	3. we all know who thea longs to marry

"Rilow, you didn't tell me you had sisters!" Hänschen was escorting the girls to the Slytherin common room after the Sorting. At the voice behind them, his face twisted into a sneer.

"That's the sort of thing I'd tell a friend," he said coolly. The girls exchanged knowing looks. This must be Hänschen's…enemy was too strong a word, but nemesis didn't quite fit either. Whatever he was, when they'd asked about Hogwarts over the summer they heard of not much else. (The other half of the time they heard about Robert Maler, the handsome one.)

The Rilows turned as one to face _the_ Melchior Gabor. Melitta gasped and nearly forgot to translate for Thea.

"Shame we couldn't have had them for Ravenclaw," he said. When he saw Melitta's hands fumbling to catch up, he signed it himself. Thea's eyes grew starry.

"Wasn't likely, since their brains have some practical use."

"My name is Thea," said she, offering her hand.

"And I'm Melitta."

"Melchior Gabor." He shook their hands, and his green eyes shone. The twins knew they were thinking the same thing, and it wasn't just their psychic bond (Hänschen said magic didn't work that way, but they suspected he was jealous). "Welcome to Hogwarts."

"Thank you," they said together.

Another Ravenclaw second year rushed into the corridor and skidded to a halt at Melchior's side. He signed so frantically even Thea couldn't catch everything. "Melchi, have you heard the riddle? Even the prefects can't answer it. We won't get into the common room or get any sleep tonight, and I've forgotten which stairs you take to the Transfiguration classroom, and..." His hands dropped helplessly to his sides.

Melchior laughed and clapped his friend on the shoulder. "Don't worry, Moritz, they do this every year. I'm sure they're trying to challenge the first years, make their brains work."

"Oh. Right." Moritz grinned, embarrassed. Hänschen smiled with him, though his didn't reach his eyes. "Would you help? You were always good with riddles."

"You've got to think in ways they don't expect you to think..." Melchior began. He bowed to the Rilow girls. "Good night," he said, and he and Moritz left, earnestly discussing riddle-solving strategies. The girls watched him go with matching pleased expressions.

Hänschen sneered and straightened his tie. "God, he's so pretentious."

"I like him. He's pretty," said Thea.

"You're not allowed to like him."

"He has nice eyes," said Melitta. "And arms."

Hänschen cast his eyes to heaven. "I don't know what I've done to deserve this talk."


	4. to play pirates

"Wendla!" Melchior and Moritz beckoned from the statue of Josephus the Jaundiced. They had opened the passage out of school.

She hesitated. "We'll miss Professor Black's lecture!"

"What a loss," said Melchior. The headmaster had monthly all-school lectures in the Great Hall where he expounded grand thoughts. January's lecture was about blood purity. If Moritz hadn't held him down, he would have stood and debated it then and there. "Come along, Wendla." She allowed him to take her hand and lead her into the passage, avoiding cobwebs by letting them hit his face first. Moritz brought up the rear, shutting the passage entrance as the Herbology professor swept by with the Slytherin third years.

Melchior checked over his shoulder to make sure they hadn't lost Moritz. "Where are we going?" Wendla asked, but he looked the other way and missed her question. She felt hundreds of feet shuffling above. They were passing beneath the Great Hall. The passage sank until she thought the dusty air would smother her, climbed until the boys helped her find footholds, and finally spilled them into the damp reeds by the lake shore. Wendla straightened her dress and repeated, " _Where_ are we going?"

"You wouldn't know her," said Melchior.

"Then why am I here?"

"You'll like her. And she'll like you."

"Who?" She appealed to Moritz, who wasn't so intellectual and vague.

"She was a year ahead of Melchi and I, but she ran away from home this summer. Rumors say she lives in the Forbidden Forest." No one could live there, thought Wendla, but Melchior would not be swayed when he had an Idea, so she held her peace and hoped the creatures inside were still hibernating.

"Ilse! Ilse!" Melchior kicked aside brush.

"Yes?"

The students gazed in wonder on this apparition. Her short hair was neat and her face and hands were clean, but she wore only a white dress, and her bare legs were scratched and dirty. If not for her solid form, Wendla would have wondered if she were a ghost.

"Hello, Melchior. Hello, Moritz."

"Hello, Ilse," chorused the boys.

"I am glad to see you," she said, idling among the trees. "I haven't had visitors in so long. Martha Bessel found me in the fall, which was lovely. We chatted about old times…new times."

Melchior said, "Ilse, this is Wendla Bergmann. Wendla, Ilse Neumann." Ilse kissed Wendla's cheek and at once fell to talking of dresses and sprites and the snow, taking the frightened girl's hand and wandering deep into the forest.

"You're right, she did like her," said Moritz. He and Melchior followed the girls off the path, lectures forgotten.

They were nearing too old to play pretend; Ilse would turn fourteen in a matter of days, but the woods were infectious. Moritz charmed branches to entwine around them for a castle, and Melchior as king made decrees that his knights carried out. He first decreed magical and Muggle cultures must become one, and anyone who showed stupidity or hatred toward Muggles would be at once executed. Sir Wendla had no stomach for executions, so His Majesty allowed her instead to rehabilitate prisoners. Sir Ilse had no such qualms and happily beheaded one effigy called Headmaster P. N. Black and another Melchior noticed resembled her father.

They had just created a telegraph for their new, enlightened kingdom when Sir Moritz saw a pirate ship on the darkening horizon. The castle was at once abandoned (though it became Ilse's house that night and many nights following). They found the caretaker's old skiff stranded in the bulrushes and quickly resurrected it. It was christened the flagship of the King's Navy, but when they reached the open sea one and all were turncoats and even the king became a pirate king. Ilse hoisted Melchior's coat as their colors until Moritz suggested he might like to be captain. Wendla pointed out the raft off the port bow. She also noted it was difficult to play pirates with no one to battle and so pledged allegiance to Captain Stiefel the Bloody-Handed.

The Dread Pirate Gabor ordered her to walk the plank. Without hesitation, she stepped to the skiff's edge. He caught at her arm. "Wendla, you don't actually have to." Her eyes gleamed mutinously. Without a word (because she couldn't think of anything properly dramatic) she dove cleanly into the black February water. When she scrambled onto the raft, dripping, Moritz cheered and followed his new first mate.

Now the piracy began in earnest. Both ships were boarded indiscriminately, and sometimes one crew forgot and worked with the enemy to capture their own ship. Prisoners were taken, rescued, exchanged, and taken again. The ships upset constantly, making walking the plank unnecessary. Melchior and Ilse shouted "Release the Kraken!" at appropriate moments, hoping the giant squid would appear.

At the first grey streaks in the morning sky, four children lay across the skiff, frozen, starving, and triumphant. The raft had sunk under heavy cannon fire. They sailed to shore, taking on a great deal of water. Ilse made them promise to return and faded into the shadows of the forest.

By the time a teacher found them to punish them for staying out all night, Moritz and Wendla had come down with horrible colds and spent the next three days in the hospital wing. Melchior lost Ravenclaw twenty points and got two detentions, both of which he skipped to visit Wendla and Moritz.

 **END BOOK ONE**


	5. sky-blue stockings

**BOOK 2: THE BLUE SUMMER**

Melchior slept late on the first day of summer, but Moritz rose with the dawn. He helped Mrs. Gabor make breakfast, and she told him about her garden and her writing. By the time Melchior trudged downstairs, bleary-eyed and hair stuck in every direction, Moritz was more relaxed than he'd been all year. Being home was not bad, necessarily, but it was just...not good. This was a much nicer home. He told Mrs. Gabor so. Despite her protesting that his parents were trying their hardest, he saw her hold back a pleased smile, and when she left to take Melchior's father his forgotten lunch, she kissed Moritz on the forehead as well as Melchior.

"History of Magic? Already?" said Melchior incredulously as Moritz landed the corner of his textbook in jam.

"Ancient Greek and Roman wizards. Greta Brandenburg's sister said it's the first section of the History of Magic O.W.L. Besides, it is fascinating."

Melchior groaned. "It's hopeless. My best friend is an egghead."

"My best friend is a revolutionary. We'll call it even." Moritz swatted Melchior's hand as he reached to steal the book. "Did you know," he backed away, "the pious Aeneas, founder of Rome, was a wizard?" He climbed atop his chair and held the book above his head. "And legends are true, of course, Romulus and Remus were raised by wolves," Melchior climbed onto the table after him, "but the question remains how a shepherd dealt with a wolf Animagus for a wife."

At "for a wife," Melchior overreached and collapsed, sending the boys to the ground with a crash and a yell. In the ensuing scuffle the battered textbook changed hands several times, but eventually Melchior rose with it. "No more studying, Virgil," he said, pulling Moritz to his feet.

"How shall we pass the summer hours then, oh fearless leader?"

"Anything. Everything! Swim, fly kites, march with the suffragettes, watch a burlesque show!" Melchior's eyes got their stroke-of-genius sheen. "You've never seen a burlesque show, have you?"

"A what?"

That night, Moritz jolted awake, sweating and unsure whether to break down in fear or laughter. Melchior rolled over and mumbled something resembling "Are you alright?", but his eyes were closed, so Moritz patted his shoulder and let him return to sleep. After all, grown boys of fifteen didn't have nightmares about women's legs. Did they? Melchior would laugh if he knew. He closed his eyes and prayed the burlesque dancer's sky-blue stockings wouldn't haunt him again.


	6. days at the piano

Dear Mother,

Thank you for the lovely birthday present. I actually haven't played piano since I was seven, but this music seems nice, so perhaps I'll try again. The lady Father is going to propose to is a famous piano teacher in Wizarding circles. She's a fine woman, though I must say it's strange to think of her as a stepmother.

I am quite well, aside from the nervous breakdowns on account of my upcoming O.W.L. examinations. My friend Otto visited today. He is well too, and more so because he hasn't any O.W.L.s. We played a pickup game of Quidditch in the backyard. We chatted from the goals for a while before we remembered we had to chase the Snitch ourselves. Pickup Quidditch is difficult when you're both Keepers.

I'm visiting next weekend unless you're busy, and it might be enjoyable to sightsee around town for a change. Not that I don't love sitting at home reading, I do, believe me. On second thought, if you'd rather stay home and read that sounds just fine. Father hopes you're well. I didn't ask him, but I'm sure he does. Give the cats my love.

Your favorite and so far only son, Georg

P.S. Please don't let your quilting club try to repatriate my owl to his natural habitat anymore. It wreaks havoc on his sleep schedule and delays my post something terrible.


	7. when i go there

The Röbels were enjoying a sea-grey afternoon on the porch—supposedly. Ernst sat with his back against the front door and shredded a corner of the paper. His mother was trying to be discreet ("family troubles will only worry poor Ernst"), but she had forgotten he could read lips again.

"Did you read this?" she asked his father, bending a letter in her grip. " _How is our favorite great-nephew?_ " His mother's family hadn't spoken to her in twenty years, but since he got his Hogwarts letter they'd been much friendlier. " _We can't wait to have him visit. It's such a shame we never see him, he's such a sweet thing._ A shame they didn't know I could do something right. Perhaps they would have kept me. _Do let him come, darling, you're far too possessive of the boy_." He couldn't see his father's reply, but his mother tensed. "His own kind! You agree, I'm too _possessive_?"

Mr. Röbel glanced over his shoulder long enough for Ernst to catch "just because you didn't get along with them—"

"That boy is the only magical thing I have. If they turn him against me…I'll walk off a cliff!" Ernst tipped his head back to block out the words, but instead of the gulls flying he saw only the spider's nest in the porch roof. The church bell echoed in his chest. He counted the days until school returned. When that didn't help, he closed his eyes and conjured someone else's, ice-blue and distant; a thin, mocking mouth turned down at the corners; fine hands that were too good to touch yet always seemed dirty.

Everything else went away.


	8. the new life

Wendla paced the whitewashed halls of St. Mungo's until a nosy dragon pox patient asked if someone had escaped the insanity ward. Once the lady Healer investigated and found she was not a patient but a visitor, she offered the child a blanket and tea and returned her to her mother.

"Just think, Wendla, you nearly missed it!" whispered Mrs. Bergmann. "Go on, you can see her." She pushed her daughter through the swinging door.

Wendla's sister lay on white sheets with her husband nodding off in a chair beside her, but Wendla ignored them and walked dreamlike to the pink bundle in her sister's arms. She scarcely dared touch it. "Beautiful," she murmured. Ina smiled and let her hold it. Wendla took in the strange little thing. It was wrinkled and reddish and had only a shock of fuzz for hair, but she found it absolutely lovely. She kissed its forehead before gingerly returning it to her sister. "Boy or girl?" she asked.

"Girl. Her name is Elise."

"She's perfect."

"Thank you, love." She took her husband's hand, and he awoke with an imperceptible start. "We think so too."

Wendla rocked back on her heels. "Was it hard? The spell, I mean?"

"What spell?"

"Mama explained that to have a child, a husband and wife cast a spell together, and because love is the most powerful magic in the world, it creates a life where nothing else can. It must be very difficult."

Wendla's brother-in-law snorted with stifled laughter. Ina hit him on the arm before answering. "It's not so difficult. I think it's one of the loveliest bits of magic husband and wife can create. After all," she looked to her child, "see what it can do."

Wendla fidgeted. "What about the Muggles? They can't cast spells, but they have children just as much as wizards do. How..."

Her sister's face twisted strangely. "You should ask Mama."

"I did. She said not to concern myself with Muggles."

Elise blinked awake as Mrs. Bergmann bustled in, and Wendla's questions were pushed aside again. She resolved to ask a Healer if she found a moment alone.


	9. a part I can't tell

The Ministry archivist peered from the request form to the slim, silent girl across the desk. Her mouth stretched too wide as if to enunciate for a child. "These books aren't for little girls." Her simpering smile was not returned.

Martha wrote across the back of the form in a smooth, confident script: "My father is Gustav Bessel with the Improper Use of Magic Office. Perhaps you know of him."

The woman rechecked the signature. "Oh, of course! Forgive me." She puttered to the back and returned with a thin, dust-coated copy of Stanton's _A Practical Guide to Undetectable Poisons_. Martha thanked her, turned on her heel, and walked home, slipping the paper catalog she'd stolen from the trash between the leaves of the book.

The cellar door locked from the inside; no one knew why, but Martha was glad of it. She set one lit candle beside the open book and carried another to the potions cabinet. The finger-mark bruises around her wrists ached.

Hours passed. Nothing worked. The knotgrass was rotted, they were long out of manticore blood; the only poisons she could make would give a person a light headache or took a year to mature. Patience is a virtue, she reminded herself, but virtue was in short supply in the Bessel house. She pressed her fists to her eyes to stop them stinging. Perhaps she could collapse a wall, or arrange an attack by a Dark creature, or...

The front door thudded open above, and heavy feet stalked toward her room. Her father was home from work.

She threw aside the book of poisons and opened the Muggle gun catalog.


	10. the artists' colony

The summer flowers were just beginning to die. Ilse wandered so deep in the Forbidden Forest she was nearly through it. Her legs and arms bled freely, and her dress had half torn from her ever-thinning frame, but her face still shone clean. Her hands touched everything in her path, tree trunks and spiderwebs and the few sunbeams that took their chances and slipped in before the canopy closed its defenses.

Finally, without one in mind, she came to her destination. As the trees thinned into meadow, a cluster of tents and canopies sprung up among them, and with them the smell of wood and cigar smoke. A man with bare feet discovered her first. "Good evening," he said, extending his arms to her. "Welcome."

"What is this?" she asked as the other inhabitants appeared from their haunts and greeted her.

"Priapia," said the man. "Sanctuary to the lost of body or soul. We live outside the Ministry and create beauty where they can only create order. Will you stay awhile?"

The wrinkles around his mouth reminded her of her father. "I can't."

She wove through the camp toward the open grass. A young woman draped in floral cloth gazed on her from a carpet-hung doorway, then said simply, "My muse." Ilse smiled. "Stay."


	11. let the system work

As Thea tied her sash, Melitta bounced on her toes and recited, "Cousin Friedrich Rilow is married to Alexandra. Celia and Roderick are their children, and his sister Celia—the other one—is married to Erastus Prewett, which means...how many cousins will be there?"

"Too many," said Thea in the mirror.

Melitta turned and inspected herself. "I don't know why I'm bothering when these people are going to call me Thea all night."

Thea raised her eyebrows. "With my luck, they'll call me Hänschen."

"Speaking of which…" Melitta pounded on the bathroom door. "Hänschen, we'll be late!"

"One minute!" came the reply, so the sisters sighed and went upstairs.

Mrs. Rilow pounced at once, fixing their hair, pinching their cheeks, reminding them of a thousand behavior guidelines. She paused with her hand on Thea's green-and-silver hair ribbons. "Thea, darling, mightn't it be better if…"

"If what?"

"Oh," she giggled half-heartedly. "Never mind."

"Never mind is right," boomed Mr. Rilow, squeezing his daughters in a bear hug. "So we've got a house full of little traitors. Let the whole family see!"

"Whatever you think best, dear."

"Hänschen!"

"Yes, sir," the boy drawled as he emerged from the hall, spotless and proud—and sporting a red-and-gold handkerchief. His sisters stared. "What?" He looked around as if he had done nothing out of the ordinary. "House pride is one thing, but an inheritance is another entirely."

"You look dashing, Hansi," said his mother, kissing his cheek, which he bore stoically. "Great-grandmamma will be pleased."

Thea and Melitta exchanged glances, and Melitta pulled up one green stocking. Their parents took the Floo powder from the Persian slipper on the bookshelf and disappeared in a roar of green fire. "You're disgraceful," said Melitta to her brother, only mostly teasing.

"Au contraire, little sister," he said, stepping into the fireplace after them. "Isn't this a very Slytherin thing to do?"

Thea shook her head. "He's too good."


	12. as if

Otto and his friends were admiring the racing brooms in the window of Liff Brothers Quidditch Outfitters when a familiar reflection blocked his view of the Oakshaft 91. "I'll be right back, boys. I've got to, er, use the toilet." He pushed through the crowds of Diagon Alley and caught up outside the ice cream parlor. "Anna! Hello."

"Oh! Hello." She glanced behind her.

"How was your summer?"

"It was nice." He smiled, and she smiled back. "Yours?"

"Nothing special. My uncles and I spent two weeks in Germany hunting Elwetritsche. I got four." She didn't look as impressed as she ought to. "I mean six. Then my father took me to a football game. I met the players after."

"Sounds lovely," she said.

"Are you looking for someone?" he asked as she looked around again.

"My friends...they should be here somewhere…"

"I owled you this summer. Several times, actually. Did you get them?"

"There they are! I'll see you later, Otto." She wheeled around quickly and was lost to sight in the crowd with a flash of golden hair. He leaned on a table forlornly, watching the place she disappeared. As if…

 **END BOOK 2**


	13. a young man of distinct intellectual c

**BOOK 3: SUCH A RADICAL**

"They made you a prefect? Oh, God."

"Congratulations to you too."

Hänschen and Melchior stood in the corridor of the Hogwarts Express, absolutely in the way. Everyone was complaining of the traffic or forcing past, but the new prefects were too busy to notice or care.

"I admit I was surprised. I didn't think any of the teachers wanted me at the school, much less trusted me." Melchior moved his suitcase to allow a gaggle of Ravenclaw girls through, all of whom sighed longingly at the sight of him or Hänschen or both. "But they picked you, so they must want people they can't trust."

Hänschen tipped his head critically. "You're supposed to be the great rhetorician, Gabor. I'm disappointed. Stiefel could have thought of that one."

Melchior bristled. Moritz was picked on enough by his father without Hänschen's help. "Leave him out of it."

"Oh, it's not his fault. Some people mature faster than others." said Hänschen, watching Ernst stumble between them. Ernst stepped on Hänschen's valise, apologized four times, blushed when he met the older boy's eyes, and apologized again before making his escape.

After Ernst ducked into a compartment, the corridor fell silent. Most students had already taken their seats or went another way when they saw the standoff. Hänschen leaned against the wall and looked out the window, pretending he didn't notice Melchior watching him steadily, arms crossed. The conductor announced the departure. Neither moved as the train shuddered out of King's Cross. The September sun lit their faces and glinted off their matching badges.

Hänschen had a slow smile, like a politician. "This is going to be our year, isn't it, pretty boy?"

Melchior laughed like lightning and cleared the tension. "It really is."

"Slytherin is going to win the House Cup."

"That is actually hilarious."

Georg piped in as he navigated the mess of luggage. "Actually, Hufflepuff's odds are excellent this year. Our Quidditch team—"

"Zirschnitz, did you hear someone ask you?" asked Hänschen.

Georg took a deep breath, adjusted his glasses, and politely swore at him. Melchior laughed until he gave himself a coughing fit. Hänschen rolled his eyes as Georg stalked away, rather pleased with himself.

"They do have some good Quidditch prospects," Melchior said between wheezes.

"God, I've got to get away from you. The idiocy is fouling up the air."

"Congratulations again," called Melchior to Hänschen's retreating back. He was answered with a middle finger.


	14. another bad about you

The fifth year Defense against the Dark Arts class was currently the most uncomfortable place in the entire school. Georg had spent the last three minutes fidgeting, writing amateur poetry, and trying to focus on the weather, what he had for breakfast, or death. About the time Professor Merrythought said, "It's a wonder you haven't been expelled yet, Mr. Gabor," his hand shot up and he blurted out, "Excuse-me-Professor-may-I-be-excused-restroom-emergency." She hardly noticed him, which he took as permission to sprint out.

"What's happening?" asked Otto as Georg pushed the door shut. "Professor Thistlethwaite says there's shouting." The Gryffindor and Hufflepuff fourth years had taken a detour on their way to Care of Magical Creatures when they heard the uproar.

Georg wiped his glasses on his shirttail. "Melchior is arguing with a teacher again."

"How many is that this week?"

"Two, but it's only Wednesday, and he doesn't take weekends off."

"If he gets past four, you owe me a butterbeer."

"That's too easy. He'll have five by Saturday breakfast."

Hänschen swept out of the classroom. "I've suddenly come down with a dreadful disease. I'm sick of Gabor's shit." Ernst looked away quickly to cover his giggles, and Hänschen ran his hands over his hair with a smirk.

* * *

Eighteen minutes earlier, the fifth years filed into Defense against the Dark Arts and groaned at the rows of desks. Instead of practical work, Professor Merrythought would treat them to an hour and ten minutes of uninterrupted theory, with ten minutes at the end for questions and escape attempts. Moritz sank into the back row and put his head down. Hänschen joined him, but organized his notes primly. He looked best when he sat next to a mess. Martha sat in the corner nearest the frost-coated window. Georg got his usual heckling for sitting front and center. Ten seconds after the rest, Melchior slipped into the desk in front of Moritz and with a nod promised to share notes.

"Melchior Gabor, you're late." Professor Merrythought paused for the acceptable "Sorry, Professor," but none came. She frowned and carried on with orders.

Fifteen minutes ticked by. Merrythought had the gift of making an overblown, antagonistic lecturing style unutterably dull. Martha rebraided her hair four ways, Georg had ten questions already, and Moritz had had a fifteen-minute nap. (His dreams had only grown worse over the summer, and an informative late-night excursion with Melchior to the library's restricted section made them infinitely worse. He was lucky if he got one full night of sleep in a week these days.)

"Who can tell me the most effective form of communication in this scenario?" Hänschen raised his hand lazily. "Mr. Stiefel?" Moritz snored on, fists propped under his chin. "Mr. Stiefel?" Melchior rapped the underside of his desk until he awoke with a jerk.

Moritz stood, almost knocking over his chair. " _Periculum_ , Professor," he said, passing his hand across his eyes. Martha nodded in agreement, but Professor Merrythought nearly laughed.

" _Periculum_?"

"Yes?" he confirmed in the expectant pause. She did laugh this time, and he shifted his weight and looked at Melchior, whose jaw clenched.

"An interesting theory. Your ideal way to alert a Wizarding community to a night attack by a Dark wizard-conjured creature…is a flare. That's brilliant, Mr. Stiefel, really it is, though today we did learn the Caterwauling Charm, which would not only alert the surrounding populace but also frighten the creature." Moritz deflated. "But your idea was ingenious, especially for someone so disgracefully slow in Defense against the Dark Arts. Congratulations."

Hänschen snickered, and the steam coming from Melchior's ears erupted. He leapt to his feet. "One might alternatively suggest the best course would be to telephone the Ministry, to allow Aurors to deal with the threat instead of half-awake civilian wizards."

The classroom went deathly silent except for Greta Brandenburg's quiet "Oh, dear." Moritz took advantage of the attention shift to return to his seat.

Professor Merrythought crossed her arms. "Telephone? Mr. Gabor, we are here to discuss magical solutions to magical problems, not create fanciful conjectures about your favorite Muggle toys."

"Then I fail to understand your treatment of Moritz, since that's exactly what he proposed."

"His suggestion was ridiculous."

"Yes, if you only allow one right answer!" Melchior laughed in amazement. "He followed the prescribed curriculum perfectly, and still you shut him down and ridicule him before the entire class."

"Take five points from Ravenclaw and sit down," she said, her eyes flashing.

"This is everything wrong with the Wizarding world! For all our powers we're centuries behind the Muggles because while they're challenging limits we're shaming any ideas Merlin didn't think of first."

"Ten points!"

Melchior pushed on. "Yes, I said telephone. The Muggles can speak to each other across countries in an instant while you could walk from here to London and reach the Minister before our precious owl post. But I'm the extremist. I'm the lunatic."

Professor Merrythought's face blotched. "Older and wiser wizards than you, young man, created the system we live under today, and—"

"And we're no nearer true progress because 'the system we live under today' is corrupt, punishes free thought, bases merit on blood purity—if we burnt Hogwarts to the ground tonight we might get a real education tomorrow!"

"It's a wonder you haven't been expelled yet, Mr. Gabor," spat Professor Merrythought. Georg sprinted from the room. "I wouldn't expect a Mudblood to understand!"

"There it is! There it is!" Melchior crowed. He stood on his chair, arms wide. Hänschen followed Georg out the door. Moritz was too stunned to move. "Out in the light at last, the proud Wizarding world, haven for the oppressed—unless they don't have the right goddamned blood!

"Fifty points from Ravenclaw!" She was screaming now, but so was he.

"It makes me sick to think I was excited to come here once!"

"Will you sit down!"

"To join the ranks of the most backward,"

"Insubordinate!"

"corrupt,"

"Delinquent!"

" _fucking racist_ —"

"MELCHIOR GABOR!" The doors crashed open. Headmaster Black stormed into the room. Melchior froze.


	15. almost like loving

"Have you heard?"

At these immortal words Anna, Martha, and Wendla rushed to the Rilow twins' library table. Snow blew against the windowpanes, locking them indoors and lending an appropriate sense of dreadful import to the meeting. Thea and Melitta rested their elbows on the table, pleased to be keepers of the great secret. "Would you like to tell it?" said Melitta graciously.

"No, go ahead," said Thea.

"Please, I insist."

"Please, _I_ insist someone tells it before I go mad!" Anna said.

Thea conceded. "Very well, I'll tell it. It's so horrible, you won't believe it." The girls wondered aloud what they wouldn't believe. (After all, they believed a great deal.) "Melchior Gabor is in detention all week." Martha groaned. It was hardly big news, since she'd been there, but the fourth years gasped in horror.

"What happened?"

"How do you know?"

"Everyone's talking about it!" Melitta said, which was not quite true. Hänschen told them everything, then vowed never to tell them about Melchior Gabor again, because it defeated the purpose when they spent the entire time sighing over his bravery. "Moritz Stiefel said something stupid in Defense against the Dark Arts last night—"

"He didn't!" Martha cut in.

Melitta rolled her eyes. "He said _something_ in Defense against the Dark Arts, then, and when Professor Merrythought told him off for it, she and Melchior got into a terrible fight. Headmaster Black dragged him off, and no one has seen him since. The whisper is," the group huddled around her as her face grew solemn, "he's in the dungeons."

"How awful!" Wendla said. "Poor Melchior!"

"What shall we do?" said Anna.

"Do?" Melitta's nose wrinkled.

"Yes, do. We should protest. March on the headmaster's office, or write a letter to the Minister…"

"Or go on a hunger strike." Everyone looked at Thea in amazement.

"Brilliant!" said Anna.

"I like it," said Melitta.

"No, thank you," said Martha.

The other girls glared. They needed more people on their side if they were to get Melchior released. Had she no sense of justice? If it made her feel better, they could add Professor Merrythought apologizing to Moritz to their list of demands. She grudgingly conceded, the five of them shook hands, and the hunger strike began.

It was not for lack of good intentions that the strike failed. The girls did go without lunch under various pretenses. Unfortunately, after a long day of classes (and Quidditch practice in the snow for Anna), when they smelled the pot roast in the Great Hall no one thought to abstain for poor Melchior's sake. In fact, no one remembered at all until after breakfast the next morning.

"Oh, no!" Melitta stopped in her tracks as the twins left the hall. "I didn't finish my Potions essay. I only have two inches left, can I copy yours?" As she turned for the reply, Thea slipped quietly to the ground.

Chaos took over with astonishing rapidity. Thea was surrounded in moments. Teachers waved students away and moved her to a more comfortable position, gawkers stepped on each other's toes, and a few hysterical third years cried that someone had been cursed. The swirling mass pushed Melitta to its edges, where she found Martha, Anna, and Wendla talking anxiously.

"Will she be alright?" asked Anna. Melitta nodded, though her attention fixed elsewhere.

Wendla tapped her shoulder. "What happened?"

"I don't know! She hasn't been herself all morning, but I thought she was just worried about Melchior…oh. Oh, dear."

The others came to the same realization. "Ohhh."

"Excuse me!" Melitta tried to shout over the thickening crowd. "Would someone tell the professors when she wakes to give her something to eat!"


	16. only hymns upon your lips

The corridor walls behind the caretaker's office dripped with lake water and candle wax. Wendla buried her nose in her scarf and tried every door she couldn't see into, hoping odds would favor her eventually. Some would not unlock, and those that did were supply closets or unused cells. She shivered. The last door opened with hardly a touch to the handle, so she expected another broom cupboard. She found Melchior in his shirtsleeves, slumped against the wall.

His head snapped up at the door scraping across the paving stones. "Wendla Bergmann!" he said in wonder. "How did you…ah." He laughed wryly.

"How did I what?"

"Get in here. I'd forgotten you were a pureblood."

"What does that mean?" she asked.

He smirked. "The door only opens for the right sort of people."

"This is detention?" She knelt at his side. "This is horrible."

His face lit as she busily handed him a mug of tea and threw her scarf around his neck. "Don't worry," he said. "They save this for special cases. Besides, it's given me a chance to think."

"About what?"

"Education in the Wizarding world." He pushed himself up to sitting. "You see, the great injustice in the system is a society-wide prejudice based upon blood status. What this causes in a school setting..." She sat back on her knees and let her gaze wander as the words fell from his fingers. Her eyes devoured him; the high forehead, the rise of his chest, the way his lashes masked his eyes in the half-light. The air grew close around them. "…and a society that sets itself against one group sets itself against us all…"

She reached out to brush the dust from his cheek. As her hand extended, he caught it and laced his fingers with hers. Wendla froze. Melchior leaned a breath closer.

She exhaled sharply and broke away. "What time is it? I have to go." She felt his eyes resting on her.

"I don't know."

"I have to go."

"You'd better take this." He took off her scarf and wrapped it about her. She pulled back; his hand traced her arm. "And, Wendla? Thank you for coming." He kissed her palm quickly, then at last released her. She ran without a glance behind.


	17. willows

Snow fell on bare heads as Ilse and her friends—no, family—wended their way toward Priapia, or perhaps away from it; who could tell? Voices twisted in harmony with the wind's crying. Ilse's song rose above the others, high and clear. _Her heart was so laden, she fell by a tree_. The bottle passed around again, and drink lit fires in their cheeks. The other voices picked up the tune. _Sang of some pirate who haunted the sea_.

Ilse slipped and landed, almost gracefully, in a snowdrift. The figures in the falling dark blurred as they passed away.

 _A wail through the willows_

Snowflakes caught in her lashes and, as the hours drifted by, extinguished the fire.

 _All hollow through the willows_

A final smile played across her blue lips.

 _She'll wail through the willows until she finds him._


	18. the good name of our school is secure

Melchior climbed the stairs nearest the headmaster's office. The boys were on the landing halfway up, trying too hard to act casual. Otto sat on the banister, staring up the stairs. Georg cleaned his glasses mechanically. Ernst paced, hands behind his back, and looked sick. Only Hänschen actually seemed not to care, but he was guilty by association. "What is going on?" asked Melchior.

Three immediate Nothings answered before the boys realized who was asking. "O.W.L. results are in the headmaster's office," said Georg.

"And you think if you sit here long enough they'll shout them down the stairs to you?" He laughed. "Good luck. I'm looking for Moritz. Have you seen him?"

Ernst missed a step, and Georg gulped. "Otto has." Otto confirmed this without breaking watch over the door. "The rest of us just missed him. We were waiting to see if the headmaster killed him."

Melchior looked up. The griffin statue guarding the door glared at them. "Don't tell me he broke in?"

Hänschen raised his eyebrows. "I've learned never to assume something is too stupid for Stiefel to do." Melchior raised his fist and would have gone after Hänschen, but a sixth figure appeared at the top of the stairs.

"He's back!" said Otto.

The window behind Moritz cast his stricken face in shadows. He stared, unseeing, until the boys clamoring for information awoke him. Looking past everyone to Melchior, he said slowly, "Could I talk to you a moment?"

 **END BOOK 3**


	19. and all for spite

**BOOK 4: JUDGMENT DAY**

Stealing into the headmaster's office was far too easy. Melchior had been called or dragged there enough to know the current password and fifteen past ones besides. Black was meeting with the Minister all morning. Without so much as an _Alohomora_ , he was in. Wizarding security was laughable. He spread the O.W.L. results across the headmaster's desk and traced them as if he could feel the answers in the paper.

When he picked up the right page, his stomach wrenched. He knew how righteous anger felt, but something colder gripped his chest. Fear. He lined up other pages next to Moritz's and triple-checked, but the truth didn't oblige him and change.

He sprang into action, shoving papers into his pockets, running so fast he was a step from pitching headfirst down the stairs. He checked his classrooms, the bathrooms, the Great Hall. "Damn it, Moritz!" He'd half expected the boy to know he had news intuitively and be waiting for him. Without this show of Divination, he turned on his heel toward Ravenclaw Tower.

At the corridor leading into the spiral staircase, a grating voice arrested him. "Gabor!" The caretaker grasped his arm. "You've been dodging a detention, haven't you?"

"Oh, for God's sake! Can't it wait?" said Melchior, though the fight in his voice stretched thin over the fear growing beneath. In answer, the caretaker hauled him away, deposited him in a room of cabinets, and set him to reorganizing student records. Melchior opened the first drawer and found thousands of illegible pages dating back centuries. "You don't understand!" He slammed the drawer as the caretaker took a seat across the room.

"And you're the clever one who'll correct me? We know your game, son. Hand over your wand. You won't need it."

Melchior gritted his teeth and obeyed. "Please," he said. "My friend is in a bad place, and I have news that could ease his mind."

"Why don't I take a message?"

"Impossible. I'll be back in five minutes, please."

"If we fixed your detention to suit you, it wouldn't be much of a punishment. Sooner begun, sooner finished."

Fuming, Melchior reopened the drawer and hoped Moritz wasn't doing anything desperate. He'd never seen his friend so distraught, and neither the spring holiday nor the days following had done anything to calm him.

"Failed everything. I should have known."

"There must be a mistake."

"Yes, the mistake was the Sorting Hat putting me in Ravenclaw."

"Moritz—"

"I've always suspected, ever since first year. I've never been like you. God, when my father finds out, it will kill him—assuming he doesn't kill me first. And why shouldn't he? If I come back I'll have to repeat the fifth year, and the shame of that...watching you all advance, facing the teachers..."

"What do you mean 'if'?"

Day turned to afternoon turned to evening. Melchior's fingers were raw with paper cuts and his eyes hurt even when he closed them. He rested his head against the cabinet. "Let me go, please." The caretaker laughed. Melchior had never been so near burning down the school.

They'd rigged the results; deliberately failed Moritz. No, he hadn't got perfect scores; sometimes he was dangerously near failing, but he had decidedly passed every single O.W.L.—even Defense against the Dark Arts, despite Professor Merrythought's best efforts. His correct answers matched Hänschen's, Martha's, Melchior's own.

The faculty bullying Moritz wasn't what frightened him. Ever since they figured out the boy wasn't likely to uphold the lofty pureblood pride, Moritz had been the favorite whipping boy of Hogwarts—and Mr. and Mrs. Stiefel, and everyone knew it. Still, tampering with Ministry-officiated exams was so horrible Melchior was almost impressed by the depth of their hatred.

If only he could explain everything to Moritz before something happened.


	20. the word of my wanting

"Röbel? He's got a nice ass, true, but...Röbel?"

Hänschen laughed. "I'm tired of desperate girls who go with me to shock their mamas." And tired of wasting thought on the unattainable, he added to himself as Bobby tipped his head so the candlelight caught his jawline. "A good boy will be…refreshing. And eyes off his ass. That's mine."

Bobby twirled his wand between his fingers. "You'll need a love potion."

These were fighting words. "Love potions are for the desperate, which is why you favor them." He closed the book he'd been pretending to read. "When have I ever needed a love potion?"

"When you decided to chase the shyest boy to come out of Hufflepuff House—and that's saying something. You won't get him to look you in the eyes."

"Is that a challenge, Maler?"

"You think you're so clever."

He eyed the mermaids floating by the common room window. Cleverness was for con men and would-be philosophers. Gabor thought he was clever. As for himself, opportunistic, maybe. Resourceful. Hateful, sometimes; hated, often. Intelligent, certainly; not clever. The clever ones tended to get the girl, but he wasn't after a girl this time. "You're on."

"If he fails you, there's always Isabella."

"Who?"

" _Measure for Measure_. Classically beautiful, very chaste. Just your type."

Hänschen beamed as he opened the door. "You're the best."

* * *

An hour later, Ernst stumbled out of the Come and Go Room, breathing hard and not entirely sure what just happened. He straightened his tie, his collar, his hair, and prayed to God his hands would stop shaking. He leaned against the door and slid to the ground. A hesitant smile stung the new bruise on his lower lip.

He cast the spell with the earnestness of a prayer. A blue-white figure stepped from his wand, bright and clearer than ever. The glowing boy with the thin legs and mop of curly hair circled his creator two or three times, but sensing that any danger was not external, sat beside him and wrapped his arms around him. Ernst allowed the glow to sink through his skin and warm him.

A tapping on the wall. His eyes flickered up. _Hänschen_. "Come along, Ernst." He wondered idly where he was being taken, but he gave his hand and left his Patronus to fade.


	21. you try to run, nowhere to hide

Moritz sat on the edge of his unmade bed, knees pulled to his chest. The bed was beneath the draft from the window, but he'd taken it five years ago to be next to Melchior.

Mrs. Gabor hadn't answered his letter. She was a busy woman with more important worries than that boy who took their charity sometimes. To hell with her, anyway. He tore the front endpaper from his History of Magic book, the one the Gabors gave him for his thirteenth birthday.

Melchi,

Think well of me, please.

Your brother—friend—classmate,

Moritz Stiefel

One clean fold down the center, and the note lay on Melchior's pillow.

Shutting the castle door behind him ought to have been a momentous occasion. Aside from the weight of the revolver at his hip, it felt like any other chill spring evening.

As Moritz crossed the lawn toward the cool of the Forbidden Forest, a speckled owl alighted in his dormitory and dropped a letter to languish unread among the paper snowdrifts on his desk.

Dear Master Stiefel—Moritz,

I was pleased to see your letter; I don't hear enough about you from Melchior. That said, its contents worried me tremendously.

I am truly sorry, but I cannot provide the money you requested to run to America. Still, this is a blessing in disguise. You'll never conquer your problems by running from them. Chin up, my boy. Even Melchior's father failed his graduating exams when he was your age and has managed (if I say so myself) to craft a happy and successful life.

This brings me to my second point. From your letter I understand your parents have treated you rather poorly since they learned your results. If the words of a Muggle housewife of no consequence are of any use, I will gladly write and urge them to reconsider. If that fails, you are welcome to spend as much time as you need in our home. You're practically a second son to us and a brother to Melchior; we would be glad to have you.

Finally, a word of caution. I hope I misunderstood what you implied in your closing comments. If not, let me say I expect better. I trust I can count on you not to make a mistake with such grave repercussions. Do write back as soon as possible.

Affectionately yours,

Frances Gabor


	22. summer longing on the wind

The entire student body was out for the Ravenclaw–Slytherin Quidditch match. All was dark in the castle except the firelight of the kitchens and a solitary light in Ravenclaw Tower.

A third light picked its way toward that second, a wavering candle stolen from the wall and carried through corridors and stairwells until it met the other.

"W-Wendla!" Melchior stammered as she blew out her candle and set it on an overfull bookshelf.

"I'm sorry. Were you busy?"

"I was looking for...never mind. You startled me." He ran his fingers through his hair. "How did you get in?"

She gestured to the door. "I answered the riddle it asked."

"You are a marvel," he said, shaking his head. "Always finding me when you're not supposed to."

Her cheeks flushed. "As if something is pulling us together," she said, tucking her hair behind her ear.

"Indeed." The open windows let in the beginnings of a summer storm. Open books ruffled and Wendla's skirt fluttered about her legs. "You've answered how, but why are you here?"

"You nearly knocked me over on your way." She laughed a little so he didn't think she wanted an apology. "You seemed angry. I wanted to make sure you were alright." She had seen his eyes so often. For once she looked into them. They were starved for something, something she felt—somehow—had to do with her.

"Can I show you around?" he said abruptly. The room instantly cooled. "Our dormitory."

"Am I allowed in?" she asked, pausing on the threshold. "The boys can't go into the girls' dormitories."

"Yes. Don't you find that ridiculous, that double standard? They assume the woman needs protection from the ravages of the male libido. As if no girl has ever had thoughts or desires of her own." Wendla didn't think boys needed much protection from her thoughts or desires. The hunger pangs in Melchior's eyes, on the other hand… "Come see this." He led her back to the common room and tapped his wand on the wall. Stone steps emerged, leading in a thin spiral to a trapdoor in the high ceiling. The room above was unbearably stuffy, lit only by Melchior's wand and a dingy skylight. "This is my private place. For thinking," he said.

"What can you think about here?" Between the closeness of the air and the heady scent of Melchior standing too near, she was growing light-headed. He didn't answer right away. "You're shaking."

He kissed her. Heat washed over her, and she gasped. His hands gripped too tightly; she pushed and twisted to escape. "Stop, stop!"

"Why?"

His eyes were a trap. "This isn't right."

"Why not? It's forbidden; we're too young?" She shook her head, I don't know. "I feel you _now_. Do you expect me to hide that away until society says we're old enough to understand?" He touched her face and sent a shiver through her. "We'll never understand this, but it's good, isn't it?" Streaks of purple clouds dirtied the moon.

"We'll be hurt."

"Of course we will. It's the price for feeling...anything. Please. Let me show you." He took her hand in both of his and laid it against his chest. The cadence of his heart swelled and overpowered her own. He drew nearer until only her hand separated their bodies. When he kissed her again, she forgot to resist.

His body pressed to hers; the scent of him was everywhere. She couldn't think, couldn't breathe. He touched where he shouldn't, and she backed away to find herself in a corner. "It's me, it's just me," he said, fumbling with the buttons of her blouse. "You know me." She knew him. Her blouse slipped from her shoulders.

So it went: Melchior asked, and Wendla gave, and he took and took until her back arched against the floorboards. The moon was gone; summer rain lashed against the lightless skylight. She felt him whispering into her hair, words meant only for himself.

Thunder shattered over them with a condemnation. Guilty.

 **END BOOK 4**


	23. fumbling mutely with their rude hands

**BOOK 5: DARKNESS BEFORE DAWN**

Professor Black had too many letters to write, too little light, and a roaring headache. The storm had finally passed. He hardly noticed the girl who entered his office—except she glided through the window. "What do you want?" he asked the ghost. "Who are you?" She never looked straight at him, as if he were the translucent one. As he circled her, taking in her boy-cut hair and the winter weeds in her hand, he said sharply, "You're that Neumann girl who left. Died at sixteen, did you? I can't say I'm surprised."

Finally she looked at him, and oh, how she looked. Her hollow eyes were knowing and haunted beyond her years. He fell into uneasy silence. "There is something you should see," she said.

"I don't have time for this," he grumbled.

"Believe me, Headmaster. You do."

It was arranged like a still-life portrait: the revolver crushing the white anemone flowers, the blood-soaked grass blacker than the night. "You remember Moritz Stiefel, don't you?" said Ilse.

* * *

"Professor Merrythought."

"Headmaster Black?" The adults stood on the landing overlooking the entrance hall, watching the students mill and whisper the horror story from one to another.

"You've heard what happened to that idiotic—that poor Moritz Stiefel?"

"Such a tragedy," said Professor Merrythought, not quite mournfully.

"No leads on the murderer yet, but we are dealing with a Muggle."

Professor Merrythought glared down her nose at an outburst of laughter far below. "Nonsense. Hogwarts is the securest place in the Wizarding world. No Muggle has ever found Hogwarts."

"Then the killer must have been a Mudblood," said the headmaster. "They're all prejudiced against purebloods, which the Stiefel boy—shockingly—was, and would have access to Muggle weapons."

"Brilliant, Headmaster."

Black sneered. "It was only a matter of time."

"Thank goodness the first victim wasn't someone important."

Anna Whelan found Melchior Gabor and whispered in his ear. "Have you heard?" The boy crumpled.


	24. so dark

Moritz stood in the clearing until time lost meaning. At first the creatures, emboldened by his stillness, crept near and watched him, but they could tell something wanted privacy. The evening took one's breath away; the air hung heavy with anticipation beneath gathering storm clouds. Moritz retied his scarf and straightened his hair. He appreciated the theatrics, though presuming they were on his behalf would imply the universe noticed him.

One last knarl grew tired of waiting for the show and hied its way home, leaving the clearing deserted. Moritz watched it go. It must be nice to be so empty, to care for nothing—but he didn't care, he reminded himself, or he didn't have to. No more exams to fail or parents to disappoint; no friends to cast shadows or Houses to leave unattainable legacies. And yet…it took longer than expected, but he'd found his moment of brilliance. He, misfit, just average, undeserving of House or family name, was the one who looked at the endless, miserable days and created another way. He mistook the chill in his heart for steely resolve and lifted the revolver.

The white figure blinded him as it appeared. He cursed and dropped the gun. As the spots cleared from his eyes, he squinted and said, "Ilse?"

"Good evening."

"How—how have you been?" He regretted the question as soon as it left his hands and covered his embarrassment by dropping to his knees to hunt for the gun in the tall grass.

She ruffled his hair to make him look up. "A trifle light-headed, but still my old airy-fairy self. How about you?" His eyes kept wandering. "Are you searching for something?"

She drifted nearer, and her light glinted off the gun. "Thank you," he said hurriedly, tucking it back in his coat.

The movement did not escape her. "Oh, Moritz, yesterday we were children." The two pairs of grey eyes met, but the living ones couldn't hold the gaze of the dead.

"Aren't we still?"

"We look it, but inside...oh, we're so much deeper and darker."

"I miss you," he said.

Ilse knelt beside him, and her hand brushed his cheek with a touch like winter wind. His eyes locked with hers, but this time she was the first to look away. "Are you afraid?" she asked, searching the yellowing sky.

"Yes." He paused. "Of what?"

"The hereafter." He rubbed the back of his neck, then nodded. "Don't be."

He sat forward. "What is it like?"

"I don't know; I stayed. Don't do what I did, Moritz. I don't want to see you again that badly." The hollow feeling threatened to swallow him. "I should go," said Ilse, and she melted into the shadows between the trees.

"Don't leave! Ilse! Ilse!" Moritz chased after the spirit, but she was nowhere. He cried; horrible, heaving sobs that grated in his throat and his chest. Loneliness was old news, but in the blazing sunset he felt empty. He didn't even have the company of himself.

At last the final calm came over him. Somehow it seemed appropriate to say goodbyes. With no one to see, he delivered a farewell address of unassuming eloquence to the dusk, willing his belongings to Melchior, thanking Wendla for keeping his confidences, forgiving his father. Like a man sleepwalking, he lifted his chin, fitted the revolver into place, pulled back the hammer.

A shifting shadow caught the corner of his eye. He turned away. Distractions, excuses. He took a great breath.

The shadow was there again, nearer: a person—a girl. He stuck the gun in his pocket and hoped she would pass. "Martha Bessell?"

She started, her back against a tree. "Moritz Stiefel." Her shoulders heaved with exhaustion, and she pushed her hair out of her eyes. He'd never seen it out of braids. "I'm sorry to bother you. Good night."

"Good night," he said, but as she moved to pass him he came to his senses and reached for her arm. She shied away. "Are you alright?"

She shook her head. A revolver matching his was tucked into the waistband of her skirt. Each stared at the other's weapon, wondering if its purpose was the same. Moritz thought Martha looked like a hunted animal. She wasn't the only one.

Moritz's brow furrowed in realization. "Where have you been?" he asked.

"You noticed I was gone?" Her face softened.

He hadn't; more pressing matters had consumed his mind, but "No one was saying good morning to me."

"Oh, Moritz."

"Where were you?"

"I was at home." Her answer came too easily, and she wouldn't meet his eyes.

"Why are you running?"

"Good night, Moritz."

"Don't leave me, please!" As soon as the words escaped him he jammed his hands in his pockets and closed his eyes. His fingers traced the cold handle of the revolver. Martha tapped his chest, and he opened his eyes slowly.

"I killed my father." She began to shake uncontrollably, and Moritz took her shoulders to keep her from sinking to the ground. "He's dead." Her face shone. She seemed smaller and yet infinitely grander.

At once her mouth fell open. She backed away, staring in terror. Moritz turned to see a brown-coated man with an Auror's badge—and an angular wand pointed at Martha. The wind lashed rain into their faces. The Auror spoke to him, and when he got no response shouted at him, pointing him out of the way. Moritz glanced over his shoulder. Martha was still frozen. He put his hands behind his back and signed RUN. The Auror pushed him aside to chase her. Moritz hadn't brought his wand. He swung for the man's face.

The fight was messy. Moritz felt the Auror's wand crack beneath his foot. He'd never fought an adult. The man had height and weight on him. He had absolutely nothing to lose. Arms entangled. Bodies crashed together. Blood gushed from Moritz's nose and made his hands slick. The revolver fell from his pocket. He reached it first; the Auror grabbed him, wrapping an arm around his neck, grasping for the gun with the other. The barrel twisted this way and that and back toward the man and the boy.

The gun jolted from Moritz's grip with a bang that shook the forest. White fire licked through his side and he collapsed, biting back tears. For God's sake, he couldn't even kill himself properly; someone else had to help.

But he didn't die. Martha took his blood-soaked hands, pulled him to his feet, tied his scarf over the spreading black on his sweater. Then she ran, and he ran with her. The Auror followed, but he fell farther and farther behind until he stumbled and didn't rise again. Moritz's heart lurched. He'd never seen a man die. For Martha it was the second in as many days.


	25. little miss didn't do right

"Mama, the chimney-sweep asked when the baby is coming. Is Ina to have another child?"

Wendla had been confined to the hospital wing with a bout of illness, and when it was clear she'd be there some time Mrs. Bergmann put her foot down and brought her daughter home. After a week's bed rest and visits by the best Healers in the city, she was declared fit, excepting a bit anemic, and allowed out for fresh air.

"She isn't." Mrs. Bergmann stopped rearranging the portraits on the parlor mantel and inspected her daughter. "What did you say to him?"

"Nothing!" Wendla was frightened by her mother's expression. "He only asked how I was. I said fine, thank you, except the last few mornings I've been ill, and I tire more easily these days. Then I mentioned my dresses fit tighter about the middle than they used to and he laughed and asked when the baby is coming." She stopped. "He doesn't mean me?"

"Don't be ridiculous."

"Mama." She grabbed her arm, and Mrs. Bergmann shook her off. "Mama! Why does he think I'm going to have a baby?"

"Because you are, child!" The great empty house had never felt so still. Mrs. Bergmann and her daughter were both on the verge of tears. Wendla slipped into the velvet armchair. "Who is he?"

"The chimney-sweep?"

"The father!"

"I don't understand. I haven't cast any spells like that; I wouldn't know how to begin!"

"Spells, spells. That's child's talk; you know what you've done."

"I only know what you told me!" Wendla buried her face in her hands and wished Melchior were there, Melchior who could make sense of adult talk. He would protect her from her mother; he loved her... He loved her! "My God, mama! Why didn't you tell me everything?"

"I knew it! I should have sent you to a girls' school. A boarding school with boys and girls, what did I expect of a silly little fool? Who is he?"

"No, no." He was in enough trouble.

She shook Wendla by the shoulders. "Who? One of the Black boys, or a Rosier?" Wendla bit her tongue. "Was it that Rilow boy? The mothers whisper about him." If she wasn't so afraid she might have laughed. "No. It would be too much to hope he'd be from a good family." Mrs. Bergmann stumbled back in horror. "Say it wasn't Melchior Gabor." The tears Wendla had been holding back spilled over, hot and awful. "Thank heaven my mother never lived to see this. My daughter, at fourteen…it doesn't bear considering."

"You don't understand, mama, he loves me, and once he knows he'll care for me. For us."

"He doesn't love you, child. He used you."

"That can't be!" She began to cry again. "You said love was the only magic strong enough to create life, and look at me. He loves me, he does, he does." She ran from the room, leaving Mrs. Bergmann to sink into the chair.


	26. return my call

The Gryffindor–Hufflepuff Quidditch match was a subdued affair. The mood was especially dampened by teachers searching Muggle-born students for weapons as they entered the stands. Below, Anna fidgeted on the bench and said, "Today would be the perfect day for a half-blood to go on a murder spree while they worry about guns and knives. I'm tempted to try it, just to show them."

Otto, who sat at a respectful distance, snorted with laughter, but he saw something stiff in her face and stopped short. "You don't mean that," he confirmed, setting his broom down. She hesitated. "Do you?"

"Oh, Otto, of course not! I couldn't kill anyone. I don't believe anyone else could either."

"That Hänschen Rilow always had a shifty look," he offered. She tried to smile but was overcome with crying.

Oh, dear. The rest of the team was making faces at the Hufflepuff players across the pitch. Otto had never been much for lip-reading, but the words Georg and his team were shouting back looked suspiciously rude. Regardless, no one on the pitch was worried about a Gryffindor Beater dissolving into tears, and the spectators above were paying more attention to the murderer. It was up to him. God help him.

He scooted closer. "No one's going to get hurt today."

She wiped her eyes. "That isn't what worries me. I feel so sorry for poor Moritz—I'm not sorry for Martha's father, she always said he was horrid," she added. "But what about us? Poor Ernst doesn't even want to go to class anymore. And what happens when they run out of Muggle-borns to bother? They'll go after the half-bloods next."

"I won't let them go after you," he said hotly, moving another inch nearer. She buried her face in his shoulder, and his eyes widened. Experimentally, he put his arm around her. She didn't recoil. Otto hovered somewhere between a burst of confidence and the deepening conviction he was about to wake up.

The referee took to the air, and the team left the Hufflepuffs alone to get their brooms. Otto tapped Anna on the shoulder. "We still have to play Quidditch," he said, more than a little regretful.

She shrugged wistfully, then said, "You're going to Hogsmeade tomorrow?" He nodded. "Take me to lunch. I need something to lift my spirits." His jaw dropped, and he nearly forgot to agree in his absolute shock.

He helped Anna onto her broom before kicking off himself. At the opposite goal, Georg had almost finished swearing his blue streak at the Gryffindors. Otto waved to get his attention. "BIG. NEWS."


	27. in the meantime

Headmaster Black stood at the high table, finishing announcements. The students had long since tuned him out in favor of breakfast. "Until the murderer of Moritz Stiefel and Gustav Bessel is found," he said, "by school decree all Muggle-born students will submit to questioning." He had everyone's attention.

Ernst paled. "What's the matter?" asked Hänschen.

He hesitated. "I don't...talk with teachers so well. They talk with their backs to me, then think I ignore them."

"Talk with me, then."

When the first class began, Ernst hid in the bathroom in indecision for ten minutes before concluding that at that point the embarrassment of walking in late was worse than cutting entirely.

The groundskeeper's garden still grew wild with hiding places after a winter lying untended. He found Hänschen lounging beneath a tangle of grapevines. "You're laughing," he said, his face hot.

"Good boy, what am I to do with you?"

"I don't like skipping class." He sat cross-legged opposite him. "I shouldn't have come; they'll think worse of me, and I want...I try so because I want to join the Ministry when I'm older—and help people."

At least Hänschen tried to stifle his laughter. He rolled his eyes at Ernst's hurt expression. "Helping people and working in the Ministry are mutually exclusive. That's no place for a nice little thing like you. My cup of tea, more like." Ernst's gaze danced across the garden, expecting a teacher to leap out and send him to Azkaban. "You're still worried about that questioning." Hänschen sighed and drew closer. "It's so simple. Black will ask if you blew Moritz Stiefel's head off, you'll open your big, innocent eyes and say 'I couldn't!' and he'll arrest Gabor instead." He rested his hand on Ernst's leg. "Trust me."

Ernst flinched and turned his back to hide his face. "It's not just that—if anyone found out about you, even at home, what would they do to us? We could be thrown in prison or…"

"Do you know who else 'they' throw in prison and kill?" Hänschen moved his hand to the younger boy's waist. "Witches." This time Ernst sank into his touch. "Damned if we do, damned if we don't."

"So...you're saying...we may as well…" Ernst was never sure who began the kiss, but no one was complaining. They were a mess; Hänschen's elbows in the dirt and vines catching in Ernst's hair, and Hänschen was about to reach for that nice ass Maler had been so clever to notice—

"Ernst Röbel!"

Hänschen pushed the boy off him. "They're calling you." Ernst panicked, but Hänschen transfigured a discarded seed pack into a parchment sheaf and a vine tendril to a quill, and when Professor Merrythought and the groundskeeper found them he was calmly helping him finish his History of Magic homework. "...Italiam, fato profugus, Laviniaque venit litora—no, no. Multum _ille_ ; really, Röbel."

Professor Merrythought dragged the boys up by their collars. Ernst rubbed his neck to cover Hänschen's marks. "I told you I saw him coming this way," said the groundskeeper.

"Mr. Röbel, when called for questioning you were not in class."

He shrank back and said, "Nervous attack," which was practically true.

Professor Merrythought harrumphed. "Guilty conscience, more like. Take him to my office," she told the groundskeeper. Ernst looked like a man facing the firing squad. Hänschen nodded reassuringly as he was marched away. "Don't you also have a class to be in, Mr. Rilow?"

"Couldn't I say the same to you, Professor?"

She smiled. "The headmaster placed me in charge of investigations while Ministry officials dither." Her voice shifted from proud to predatory in an instant. "It must be difficult for you and your sisters; black sheep in such a well-respected family. I imagine you feel resentment. What were you doing the night Moritz Stiefel died?"

He smirked. She didn't want to know. "You have the man you came for. You're wasting your time." She crossed her arms, unmoved, and he decided. "Röbel's mother was a Stiefel. Disowned. Squib. Raised her child among the Muggles. And you talk to me about resentment?"

* * *

"I won't chase you around the school to pet your ego." Hänschen cornered Ernst down a library aisle. "Do you have something to say or not?" He checked his temper. "Are you alright?"

"Not really." Ernst pulled a book from the bottom shelf. "It's nothing, don't trouble yourself."

"Were they beastly?"

"Hänschen, how did they know my mother was related to Moritz?"

The accusation hung in the air between them.

"You needn't take that tone with me."

It was as good as a confession. Ernst slumped against the shelves. "Why? You didn't have to say you were with me that night, of course not, but—did you want me expelled? I didn't have an alibi because of you—not that I minded, please don't think—" he added hastily, "but then you gave them a motive. I thought they'd never let me leave."

"The stress is affecting your mind." Hänschen fixed Ernst's tie and the shoulders of his sweater, and the corners of his mouth quirked up. "You need to relax."

Ernst pushed his hands away. "Tell me the truth, please!" He opened the wrong book.

"Very well. I slipped. Can you blame me, truly?" He took the book away and lifted Ernst's chin so he had to meet his eyes. "I have as much reason to be afraid as you. If something happened to you, I don't know what I'd do."

As he spoke, Ernst defrosted inch by inch until he said, "Truly?" Hänschen kissed his forehead in answer. "We are both safe now. That's what matters—"

"Wait." Hänschen grabbed his hand and silenced him, looking with displeasure on the bloody knuckles. "Tell me you didn't punch a wall to express your adolescent rage." A guilty shrug. "Is your name Otto Lämmermeier?"

Ernst half-smiled and ran his fingers through Hänschen's hair. "I'm sorry I was cross," he said. A pause as if he gathered his courage. "I love you."

"Yes. I know."


	28. not an inch more room to self-destruct

Melchior lifted his chin and dared the adults to try to cow him into submission. Black and Merrythought circled him like vultures. They'd been at this for an hour. He sat as straight as he could against the rings of grey smoke binding his arms to the chair.

The headmaster began a new tactic. "You refuse to be forthright about your whereabouts."

"Yes, because—"

"And you are known throughout the school as a troublemaker and instigator—"

"A troublemaker, indeed!" added Professor Merrythought.

"spreading vicious slander of the pure Wizarding world and showing contempt for your superiors."

"Utter contempt!"

Melchior protested. "With all due respect, point out any statement I made that was untrue—"

"If you please!" He fell silent. "We have only one more question. Do you recognize this gun?"

A moment comes in every crisis, and Melchior knew he'd just found his, when one realizes one is completely and totally fucked.

Mr. Gabor was a proud veteran of the Franco–Prussian War and kept his scrupulously maintained revolver in his study; the same revolver Moritz had expressed a quiet interest in over the spring holiday; the same revolver lying cold in the headmaster's hand.

"Look at this, Moritz. The Muggles' Killing Curse." So proud.

"Would it kill a man in one shot?" Such an innocent question.

"Of course. One clean shot through the head. I'll bet a Shield Charm doesn't defend against this, either. Here, Father, show Moritz how it works."

Melchior nearly lost his stomach.

"Well?"

"It's my father's, but—"

"You admit the murder weapon comes from your Muggle family?"

"Moritz wasn't murdered. He shot himself in the head because you failed him!" Melchior spat. He shook with barely contained horror, his fists clenching as if he might break his bonds. "You couldn't handle a pureblood scraping by with passes and neither could his parents, so you destroyed him. You're the murderers."

Black struck him across the face, and he tasted blood. Professor Merrythought wrenched his head back by the hair. "That was a yes or no question, young man, and I suggest you answer as such. Your philosophizing may charm the fourth year girls, but we are not so easily impressed."

"Is this your gun?"

"My father's, but—"

"Where were you the night of the murder?"

"In my room, writing an essay."

"Liar!"

"Did you kill him?"

"I have—"

"Yes or no!"

"Melchior Gabor, for the last time, did you kill Moritz Stiefel?" bellowed the headmaster.

" _Yes._ "

 **END BOOK 5**


	29. the ghosts still left behind

**BOOK 6: THE SONG IN G MINOR**

"Students, faculty, respected members of the community; we gather in remembrance of a part of ourselves now gone." Blue evening light flooded the Great Hall, and black drapes swayed with the slow movement of the ghosts. Murmurs rippled through the students, rumors saying the black-clad man beside the headmaster was the dead boy's father. Seventh year boys invented tales of finding the mangled body, head blown off, and the girls in front of them bawled, more from disgust than sorrow for...what was his name? "Three weeks ago, Moritz Stiefel was killed at fifteen years old on Hogwarts grounds. He was a promising student, pure of heart and blood. We meet in solidarity with his family and sympathy with one another in the wake of this horrible tragedy."

In the women's room adjoining, Anna held her hair back with one hand as she bent over the toilet and retched. She came up for air, rubbing tears and sweat from her face. She hadn't been so sick since Hänschen Rilow found Max von Trenk drowned in her second year. If the adults passed one more smug look among themselves, one more well-chosen phrase that meant "better him than us," she would take her bat and—she heard Moritz's name and her stomach turned again.

"Yet, in these troubled times, it does not do to seek after the departed, rather turn to one another in mutual strength and appreciation, eradicating the prejudice that took lives…"

Georg frowned while translating "violence against the natural course of society," and in response to Otto's question said, "He's hardly talking about Moritz."

Otto scratched his neck. "He ought to be talked about. It's his funeral." The latter sentence was a little wobbly, and Georg put his arm around his friend's shoulders for a moment. "He never liked Quidditch much, but whenever I was excited he'd let me talk and talk."

Georg nodded. "You don't know how often Melchior got in trouble for laughing in class, and Moritz would sit there innocent as you please. No one knew he was the one who set Melchior laughing."

"He told me not to give up on Anna."

"He remembered everyone's birthday."

The quiet little eulogy continued until the patrolling caretaker struck Otto's hands with his cane and hissed at them to pay attention.

"The Wizarding world faces a crisis. Some among us are not born like us. Raised to hate magic, they infest Hogwarts and contaminate our lifestyle with Muggle culture and ideas. The prejudice they hold for pure wizardkind caused the murders we mourn today. We have arrested Moritz Stiefel's murderer, but the seeds of his darkness lie in all of his kind."

Ernst sat rigid. Humiliation crept up the back of his neck. Dozens of eyes flicked to him with every mention of "his kind," and when the headmaster actually said "Mudblood," someone punched him in the shoulder. He glanced across the aisle again.

Thea wondered to Melitta why Ernst kept looking their way. Perhaps he had designs on one of them. If so, he was braver than she thought, but he shouldn't hope. Not that he wasn't a nice boy, but who knew these days? Melitta looked horrified. She didn't mean their friend might be a… Thea straightened her shoulders. If Melchior Gabor could be (here she teared up), mightn't anyone? Melitta accidentally made eye contact with Ernst. Thea grasped her sister's hand and dared him to look again.

"Consider yourselves lucky, students. The faculty of Hogwarts works tirelessly to defend its charges in mind and body from the Mudblood epidemic. We must place our trust in their authority and the establishment they represent as our rock in the storm of this degenerate age."

Hänschen nodded at the proper moments in the speech and returned none of the thousand glances Ernst sent him.

"Words cannot express the tragedy the Stiefel family faces. Our thoughts are with them as they suffer."

Ilse floated outside the window, warm rain falling through her. She glared at the headmaster and the distraught Mr. Stiefel, then serenely stepped through the window. All attention fixed on her as she crossed the Great Hall, head high, and laid shimmering white flowers beside the somber ones provided by the school. She blew a kiss toward heaven and left as silently as she'd come. It took several minutes before the headmaster regained control of the room.

His voice echoed through the empty corridors, reaching with magic's aid to the farthest cell of the dungeons for the especial benefit of the guest of honor. Until the Ministry saw fit to transfer the young murderer to Azkaban, Melchior was locked away, wrists chained to the wall. Azkaban wouldn't have been much worse. He was tormented enough without the dementors' help. His parents' words of praise, his classmates' awed looks, his teachers' grudging, hard-won approval crowded his head to mock him. Bright. Brilliant. So wonderful. He'll do good someday.

He defended himself desperately against the darkness. I did everything I could. Was it my fault I didn't find Moritz in time?

Ah, but remember, the darkness replied, the very night your best friend walked into the woods alone and shot himself, where were you?

He cursed Wendla aloud, then immediately repented. As if she walked in with some intention of seducing him. His fault again; he was so goddamned selfish he took her and doomed Moritz in the same fell stroke and didn't think twice.

He killed Moritz.

Melchior cried.


	30. a new chance

Melchior woke to an icy hand at his chest. He gasped, then winced and rolled his shoulders to relieve the ache. When he recognized the apparition he cried, "My God! Ilse?"

"It's been a long time, Melchior Gabor."

He tried several times to speak, but for once words evaded him. Ilse twirled for him as if she were showing off a new dress instead of a new state of being. When the words did return, they came in torrents. He badgered her about her life and death and she answered breezily, wandering his cell. At last he asked, "Why are you here?"

"I'm visiting my old friends. Martha I couldn't find anywhere, Moritz I found too late, and Wendla—"

"How is she?" The words burst from him. "She hates me, doesn't she? What I'd give to speak to her!"

Ilse laughed. "Hates you? You were all she could talk of." He looked up quizzically. "She's well; at home with her mother. You can't see it yet, but you can tell it's there. The girl positively glows."

"See what?"

"The baby."

Melchior was struck dumb again. He stared through Ilse as his mind raced. She laughed again, and he shook himself awake. "Would you take her a message?"

"Of course."

"Tell her to wait for me. Tell her I'm coming. We'll get away and build a new world—for our child." He smiled for the first time in weeks.

"That sounds like the Melchior I knew," she said and slipped away, followed by his thanks. He leaned his head against the wall. His promise was made; he had to figure out how to keep it.


	31. this brave new you that you are

They didn't run far the first night. Moritz's side screamed with pain, and once Hogwarts and the Auror's corpse were out of sight, his legs gave out. Martha eased him to a seat against a gnarled fir and hesitantly asked him to take off his shirt so she could heal him. His face flushed, but he complied, folding his blood-soaked scarf, sweater, and shirt and stacking them neatly.

He knew little of Healing magic, but sticking fingers into the wound until he had to bite his hand to stifle his cries didn't seem right. "The bullet isn't there," she said, her eyes drawn to his body despite herself.

"I think it's in the Auror," he replied. Then his words crashed over him.

"Of course! I'm so sorry," Martha wiped her fingers on the grass, but she froze as his breaths caught and he curled up. "Moritz?" No response. She clutched his arm. His pulse was frantic. "Breathe," she said despite fear rising in her own throat. "Breathe."

"I killed a man," he said, chest heaving.

"You defended yourself."

"Why? I wanted to die! I should have let him…"

"You helped me," she offered. "Look at me, look at me." She stayed beside him until his breathing slowed. They at once apologized, Moritz for frightening her and Martha for forcing him into her troubles. Neither apology was accepted. Martha pushed her hair back and returned to his wound.

Moritz didn't ask any of his hundred questions. Fear and admiration in equal parts kept him silent. He didn't ask why she didn't return to school after the spring holiday, nor what her father had done. He certainly didn't ask whether it was true that she of all the girls preferred him to Melchior, though he'd wondered for years. In return, Martha didn't ask why she found him with a gun to his head.

As she bandaged him, he asked one safe question. "Why were you coming back to Hogwarts?"

"I had an idea of finding Priapia." He didn't understand. "Anti-Ministry artists have a camp on the far side of the forest. Ilse lives there."

"Lived," Moritz corrected, then explained gently.

Martha blinked rapidly. "She suffered a lot. She's free now."

"And us?"

She gathered his bloody clothes to clean them. "We will be." They stayed awake, breathing the fir until a red sun rose. Moritz vaguely noted he hadn't planned to see this sunrise.

They found Priapia late that evening—or what was left of it. A white sign proclaiming "Cleared by Ministry Order" presided over fallen tents and empty fire pits. Moritz stepped hesitantly around scattered paint tubes. Martha reassembled a calico tent with a wave of her wand and disappeared inside, her face taut. They agreed to stay only until morning.

The night was colder than the one before, and Moritz thought they might lie together to share warmth. When he joined her on the tent floor, she flinched and cowered away with such terror in her eyes that he wanted nothing more than for the earth to open and consume him. Instead he apologized ad nauseam and hastily retreated, pacing the camp until sleep overtook him.

Moritz awoke at midnight with a crick in his neck and a shooting pain in his side. At first he thought he was seeing things, but Martha was sitting in the meadow. He half-slid down the hill and tapped her arm. Tear streaks glinted on her face. "Bad dream?" he asked. She nodded and pulled down her sleeves, but not before he saw the mottled bruises. He no longer needed to ask why her father was dead.

Moritz watched her, still wrapped in her nightmare. The nice thing to do would be to distract her. There were no stars to point out, and stories about himself seemed unpleasant. "I was reading about Aeneas's flight from Troy." _God_ damnit. It was too late to back out. "The Greeks believed the gods interfered, but..."

Somehow the distraction worked, despite constant internal cringing by the young man. Moritz was a more compelling storyteller than he gave himself credit for, expressive and interested in his topic (albeit embarrassed he'd led with that). Martha hadn't paid attention in History of Magic since second year, so when he forgot wholesale the names of Aeneas's men, he confidently made them all up. Martha laid back and watched him, almost smiling. They awoke with dew and grass in their hair.

The following days were not easy. They decided to disappear among the Muggles but set out with no idea which way to go. Though Moritz's failed O.W.L.s didn't loom so largely as the days passed, his way out still lurked in his mind, baring its teeth whenever he saw Martha's revolver. Martha withdrew further into herself when they found a road and passed strange men who looked at them curiously. They held each other after nightmares, but still nightmares came.


	32. animals

The rough voice carried through the cell door. "Are you ready, boys?" Six seventh year boys had claimed the dungeon corridor as their hideout and little cared if the new inmate heard them at their games. The other boys chorused agreement. Melchior initiated the first step of his escape.

"Dieter!" He chose the only one he knew was pureblood and fired away. "Dieter, are you there?"

"The little boy feels left out!" crowed the one called Rupert. "Going to kill us too if we don't let you play?"

"Dieter, have you heard what they're calling you these days?" He hadn't used such colorful insults in years, but some skills you couldn't forget. "And your mother too!" Before long the boy was howling for his blood.

"Go in!" said his comrade. "What are you waiting for? The door lets in purebloods. Kill the bastard!"

Melchior took a deep breath. He'd failed his best friend already; he didn't intend to fail the mother of his child.

Dieter burst in (Melchior thanked heaven he was shorter than he sounded) and laughed when he saw his challenger was two years younger, considerably slimmer, and attached to the wall. "You've got nerve, runt."

"And you've got a face that makes you every child's boggart. We all have our gifts."

"You son of a bitch," he growled.

"Funny, I nearly said the same to you."

Dieter shook himself, swore, and charged. Melchior caught him around the neck with the chain and pulled. The string of curses grew weaker until the boy slumped to the wall, unconscious. Dieter's wand was within reach. Melchior's wrists were rubbed raw, but he hardly gave them a thought. He pounded on the door. "You out there! Get out of the way!" No one answered, but he could hear them. "I mean it!" Ulbrecht cursed him out. One could only do so much. He backed up and rolled up his sleeves. " _Confringo!_ " Shouts and stones and dust tumbled and smashed. The blast knocked Melchior into the wall. He took shelter beneath his arms until the wreckage subsided.

The boys lay scattered across the corridor. Rupert and Reinhold were still conscious, but when Melchior stepped over the shattered remains of the door, pointed his wand at them, and said, "I'm leaving," neither had the wherewithal to oppose him.


	33. mama, the weeping

Wendla coughed on the sulfurous fumes leaking into the waiting room. "Mama?"

"Don't worry," her mother said, though she held her skirts off the stained floor. "This will fix everything."

The bent hag grasped Wendla's forearm with her claws and breathed dog breath into her face. She didn't look like a Healer. "Mama!"

"I'll be here." Mrs. Bergmann arranged herself on the chair as the hag dragged Wendla into the back room.

"No, no, let go of me, please! Mama, help!" Her pleas fell unseen. The back room was low-ceilinged, sickly yellow, and lined with shelves of dead things. The hag forced Wendla to lie on a table. Her hand brushed spots of dried blood, and she shuddered. The hag cackled as if it happened all the time and went to the fuming cauldron.

Wendla stared at the mildewed ceiling. Letting Melchior touch her made her dirty, so her mama said. She felt so much dirtier here. She wrapped her arms around herself.

The hag hovered over her and explained the procedure, but Wendla only understood she was meant to drink a potion. The later steps were clouded in foreboding grins, too many rotten teeth, and talon hands groping her stomach and lifting her skirt. She whimpered and curled up, trying to disappear. A brown vial was forced into her hand. Without a thought she threw it away. It shattered against the floor. The hag recoiled, shouting. Stars flashed behind Wendla's eyes; her hand flew to her stinging cheek. In the cloud of the hag's breath she read "slut," a word learned too well in the past weeks. The word flew again and again and the hag stormed out for a new potion.

Wendla swung her feet to the floor and threw open the cellar door leading to the street. She buried herself among the sacks in the back of a laundry cart as it clattered off. Eventually her heart returned to its rightful place and tempo. She didn't understand what she'd done right away. When she wondered where she was going, she realized she couldn't go home. The thought of never seeing her mama again, hurtful as she could be, broke her heart. She choked down the lump in her throat. Wasn't that the way of the world? Girls left their mamas to become mothers themselves.

The cart stopped. Light blinded her as the sacks were taken away. Rough hands pulled her from the cart, and she was left on the roadside. Grey water drenched her from the passing carts and people who looked past the girl lying in the gutter. She tried to cry out for Melchior. He promised to come for her.


	34. not gone

Melchior held his breath as footsteps stampeded by. He'd been dodging through Hogsmeade all day, trying to hop a train or steal a broom or _something_. He buried his House tie in a trash bin behind the town hall. Then he found the newspaper. Glossy black type screamed "EXCLUSIVE INTERVIEW: MUGGLE PARENTS OF HOGWARTS KILLER" above his school picture. He looked too young to break his mother's heart, to be a bad seed, a lost cause. He burnt the paper and convinced himself his parents didn't mean those words.

The mayor's office maid leaned out the window to shake out the rug. Their eyes met. She screamed, and he ran from the summoned pursuers until he stumbled into a dingy alley.

The stench of refuse sat in his throat like a fog. He leaned against a dog-eared poster declaring the Gallagher Inn was hosting Miss Kathryn, Nightingale of the Highlands, This Week Only, as her opening number drifted through the kitchen door.

"Oh, God," he breathed. "Wendla." When he dreamt, he dreamt of her until he had no peace. He paced the alley, trying to plan an escape and distracted by plans of a different sort. He thought of breaking their wands and disappearing forever. Girls wanted houses with tea sets and doormats, so a house they would have, with one bed between them (two once the baby came).

He was so lost in his dreaming that Ilse's arrival took him off-guard. Weight lifted from his shoulders. "Have you seen her?" he asked, beckoning her further into the alley so her light didn't show.

"No."

"Why are you here?" he snapped. She raised her eyebrows, and he said, "You said you'd take her a message—Ilse, you look like the grave. What's wrong?"

Ilse motioned him to sit on a moth-infested mattress. He stayed standing. She began slowly. "I didn't speak to Wendla, but I saw her. I arrived at the house just as her mama took her to—" her laugh rasped with bitterness, "to a Healer. Mrs. Bergmann left afterward, but Wendla wasn't with her. I waited outside for hours, all through the night; I stole inside after everyone left. There was no sign of her. I'm so sorry."

The air left Melchior's chest with the force of a punch. "You're lying!"

"Melchior, I know that place! If she didn't leave, she's gone." Miss Kathryn's voice dipped and broke artfully with a high, angry violin accompanying. The patrons joined in the chorus.

"Get away." His eyes were empty and cold, and Ilse saw the murderer he was supposed to be.

"Melchior, if I can do anything—"

"You've done enough! Leave me alone!" She hesitated as if she would say more, but she only kissed his cheek sadly and left without a word.

He cried out and cursed and raged, hidden from the world by the celebration songs of the adults. Wendla gone, the child— _his_ child gone. He added their names to the losses, alongside his parents denouncing him, his best friend dying.

That was it. The establishment won. They had taken everything, even his pride. He might keep fighting, use the grief to fuel his righteous fury, but for the first time he wondered: why bother? Wendla and Moritz's faces seared his memory. He imagined facing their silent judgment in dreams, dogged by the ghosts of his wrongs no matter how far he ran.

Then he imagined running just far enough. Dieter's wand lay in his pocket, the Killing Curse on his tongue. Wasn't it the perfect solution? Society would be rid of him and he'd be reunited with the two he loved most. He pressed the stolen wand to his temple. There was something grand in the idea that pleased him. Magic had destroyed so much; let it destroy him. He closed his eyes and savored the words. The drinking songs drifted into silence.

"Melchi."

Blue light burnt behind his eyelids. The young man before him was a stranger, brighter than a ghost. His dark hair was a mess, his clothes and his air spoke of confidence, and his voice… Melchior had never heard it before, but he recognized it all the same.

"Moritz?"

"I should have known you'd fall apart without me."

Moritz's Patronus smiled, and Melchior returned it, but he rubbed his eyes with his arm to hide his tears. "I did everything wrong. I failed you; I failed Wendla." He rapped the wand against his side, and yellow sparks fell from it. "I shouldn't—I don't deserve to—"

"Melchior." Another Patronus joined them. This new figure was taller, more self-assured, maternal, and again the voice was strange but it belonged to Wendla. "I've missed you."

Melchior looked from one to the other in wonder. He would have hoped to say something more intelligent than "You're alive," but for some time that was all he could get out. The wand returned to his pocket. "Can you ever, ever forgive me?" They rested their hands on his shoulders, Moritz on his right and Wendla on his left.

A shout in the street reminded Melchior the rest of the world was still ranged against him. "Now what?"

"We keep going," said Moritz.

"We don't lose heart," said Wendla. Melchior nodded.

"Find me," Moritz said.

"I'll try," said Wendla.

"I will," said Melchior. He moved as if to kiss Wendla's cheek, then to muss Moritz's hair. "I will." He scaled the alley fence and disappeared into the night.

On they ran, the little girl turned woman too soon, the boy who was his own worst enemy and with him the girl still haunted by hers, and the radical with no revolution; running in three directions and praying their paths met. They were so broken; they couldn't possibly hope against such odds.

A summer wind was coming.

 **FIN**


End file.
